These words of Goethe’s were once a hope to me; later, they made me shake my head incredulously; now I smile to think how true they have proved in my own case.  But what, exactly, do they mean?  Are they merely an expression of the optimistic spirit?  If so, optimism has to content itself with rather doubtful generalities.  Can it truly be said that most men find the wishes of their youth satisfied in later life?  Ten years ago, I should have utterly denied it, and could have brought what seemed to me abundant evidence in its disproof.  And as regards myself, is it not by mere happy accident that I pass my latter years in such enjoyment of all I most desired?  Accident—­but there is no such thing.  I might just as well have called it an accident had I succeeded in earning the money on which now I live.

From the beginning of my manhood, it is true, I longed for bookish leisure; that, assuredly, is seldom even one of the desires in a young man’s heart, but perhaps it is one of those which may most reasonably look for gratification later on.  What, however, of the multitudes who aim only at wealth, for the power and the pride and the material pleasures which it represents?  We know very well that few indeed are successful in that aim; and, missing it, do they not miss everything?  For them, are not Goethe’s words mere mockery?

Apply them to mankind at large, and perhaps, after all, they are true.  The fact of national prosperity and contentment implies, necessarily, the prosperity and contentment of the greater number of the individuals of which the nation consists.  In other words, the average man who is past middle life has obtained what he strove for—­success in his calling.  As a young man, he would not, perhaps, have set forth his aspirations so moderately, but do they not, as a fact, amount to this?  In defence of the optimistic view, one may urge how rare it is to meet with an elderly man who harbours a repining spirit.  True; but I have always regarded as a fact of infinite pathos the ability men have to subdue themselves to the conditions of life.  Contentment so often means resignation, abandonment of the hope seen to be forbidden.

I cannot resolve this doubt.

VIII.

I have been reading Sainte-Beuve’s Port Royal, a book I have often thought of reading, but its length, and my slight interest in that period, always held me aloof.  Happily, chance and mood came together, and I am richer by a bit of knowledge well worth acquiring.  It is the kind of book which, one may reasonably say, tends to edification.  One is better for having lived a while with “Messieurs de Port-Royal”; the best of them were, surely, not far from the Kingdom of Heaven.

Theirs is not, indeed, the Christianity of the first age; we are among theologians, and the shadow of dogma has dimmed those divine hues of the early morning, yet ever and anon there comes a cool, sweet air, which seems not to have blown across man’s common world, which bears no taint of mortality.